Simple Math
by The Dramatic Sneeze
Summary: It's a dream, he says to himself. The warmth of the blood on his hands and the pain of the bullet and the sorrow in his chest tell him otherwise. But in all honesty, Dean can't say he hadn't been expecting it. Curses are funny, sometimes. Short, prompted deathfic!


Dean's body is on fire. That's what they say, isn't it? A simple burning sensation, maybe a faint stinging and that's fire. But Dean knows better. No, his body is _singing, _can feel the hair melting from his forearms as a concerning numbness spreads throughout the surface of his skin as his nerves are literally fried.

A rumble deep inside the walls, separate from the crashing, the banging, the scratching, the screaming as the shadow of the shuddering Devil's trap is cast onto their shaking limbs. There is more control in his voice than his hand when he tells Sam he doesn't need to be scared.

They've fought long, they've fought hard. Light pours like tea from a kettle and drains just as easily. The small hours of the morning bring a hopeful hue which keeps their backs pressed together, their hands firm on their weapons and Dean finds it funny that the worst torture they've experienced in their time has come from the freaking_ sun_.

Dean had gone down first. Neither of them had been quite expecting it at the time but apparently sigils and rock salt can't stop bullets. When hands had pressed down on the wound Dean had winced, shook his head. Sam had looked utterly baffled for a moment, and the expression nearly had Dean laughing but when the pain had slammed into the hunter like a truck at full-speed, he_ knows the feeling, _he'd opted out of that action.

A deafening crash sounds outside the door, the ground beneath them shakes and it knocks the wind from him, it sends him into a brief outer-body state so that his mind can simply escape from the torment his body faces. The metallic taste of blood overwhelms his tongue and forces him to fight back bile, as the contractions which accompany vomiting would most certainly kill him sooner.

Though, it isn't something he has much control over.

Dean isn't sure how long they hold out like that, but it's when Sammy jolts as if he's been punched hard in the gut and there's a strangled wet sound where a scream should be that Dean finds himself more aware than he has ever been. Dean presses his body back with a growl of agony.

_It's a dream._

The warmth of the liquid on his hands and the pain of the sorrow in his chest tell him otherwise.

"Sammy," Dean raises his own gun, ignoring the fleshy glimmer shining in his periphery which he knows isn't supposed to be outside Sammy's body. "Keep shooting."

They won't move.

_Crash._

Which is good, because they can't.

Sam gasps for air as if the life-giving substance is being denied of him._ It likely is. _Dean tries not to envision the sight he knows is occurring behind him because he knows what he'll see is his baby brother holding his intestines in one hand while fighting to keep his gun raised with the other.

It makes him close his eyes and remember when those hands instead held rainbow slinkies, army men and even cake when _Dean had clearly asked for pie._

Sammy had delivered in the end, though. He always did.

A sickening splat sounds behind him and Dean finds himself coated in blood and something thicker.

"Sam?"

They say one is supposed to look peaceful in death and one would think it true. A morose release of the emotional baggage which has been toted throughout a lifetime and if there is one thing the Winchester's know something about, it's that.

_Crash._

"Sammy?"

It _isn't_ like that, though. It can't be, not for them. When he shifts with a grunt of pain, twists his neck and Sam's head rolls back against his shoulder, Dean lets loose a shameless sob when he sees the dark hole in his baby brother's temple leaking _genius_ and something darker. Dean doesn't turn to face him fully, doesn't want to see the other side of his face which is surely unrecognizable, because_ this_ is Sammy and he doesn't want to see the tragedy of their lives carried over even in death. Sam does not look peaceful.

Sammy looks dead.

_Crash._

A shaky breath is loosed as Dean twists his neck and presses his face into his brother's hair, watching their blood mix, diffusing from their bodies and run through the seems of the floor like an obscene aqueduct. Regardless of the blinding pain it causes, Dean squeezes shut his eyes and _screams._

And screams and screams and screams and the sounds outside cease, if only for a moment because they know their job is finished.

The cries morph from unintelligible nonsense to his baby brother's name at one point, he isn't sure when. But soon he hears himself and his own voice is harsh on his ears.

_Sam._

The very drive that has kept him breathing begins to seep from his body as a crushing weight of hopelessness slams into his chest overwhelms the agony of his physical wounds. Tilts his head upward. The fan rotates rhythmically, _swoosh swoosh swoosh_ perfectly in time with the shadows which dance over their intertwined bodies. A bit too slow, but given the circumstances he supposes it's appropriate.

_Swoosh swoosh swoosh._

When the world grows brighter instead of fading to it's usual ominous black, Dean knows. It's slower than he'd have thought, a gradual brightening of the reflections on the metal that soon expands to envelope the scene as a whole. Aching hands grip Sammy's frozen fingers as his eyelids slide shut in bittersweet rest.

They fall defending each other with weapon and body. Dean likes to think he'll be seeing Sammy again but if he's been taught anything in his life, he knows that's not the Winchester way and this time neither brother will be around to bring their other back. As his final breath of air is drawn into his lungs, Dean's fingers tighten around Sam's.

As his final breath is drawn from his body, Dean's fingers tighten around Sammy's.

And the rusted frame of the Impala still waits patiently outside for her brothers.


End file.
